_We sail Away from Batuum with a Beat, Official
Dispatches, Foreign Mails and a Boatload of Refugees
That Keep Us Awake Nights_
I had hoped to sail away from Batuum the day after Christmas, but
so fierce was the storm that it was impossible to take on coal. All
this day and well into the next the roar of the sea on the breakwater
sounded in our ears like a never-ending bombardment of big guns. Not
in the memory of the oldest inhabitant had such a furious tempest
raged within the harbor. Even the buildings along the shore were in
danger and the beautiful little yacht clubhouse, a fraction of a mile
above the port, was completely carried away by the great waves that
broke beyond their accustomed bounds and crushed the frail structure
as though it had been but a house of cards. But there is an end of all
things and on the morning of the third day the wind abated and only the
heavy swell that surged without in the winter sunshine was left to tell
the tale of wreck and devastation that had swept the coast during the
past days.
By ten o’clock I had two barges of coal alongside and a double crew at
work passing baskets over the side and emptying them into the bunker
holes in the deck. It was vile stuff that we were getting and the
engineer fairly tore his hair as he saw the little better than dust
being poured into his bunkers.
“She will never make steam on that rubbish,” he kept crying again and
again. Yet it was all that there was in Batuum and we had to take it
or leave it. So we took it and at war prices at that. It certainly
was a scandal and it broke my heart to pay out fifteen dollars a ton
for stuff that in any other market would have gone begging at three
dollars. But there was no alternative, so we took it, paid out our
Rodwaner gold and smiled.
By noon we were fairly well stocked and ready to put to sea. Then there
came to my mind the cable that I had sent not only to my paper but also
to the American Embassy at Constantinople. “I propose to bring off
American refugees,” they had read. I had talked the matter over with
Stuart and it appeared that the only Americans there were Armenians
(nationalized in name only) and they for the most part declined to be
deported, not even to help me to live up to my cables. I called Morris
and explained the situation to him. American refugees was what the
contract called for, but lacking the letter of my cable we would have
to fill in with any kind of refugees that the market offered. I told
him to go ashore and make the necessary arrangements and to pass the
word around that we were sailing that very afternoon at four o’clock.
In the meantime I ordered up the “Blue Peter” to the foremast head
that all ashore might know that we proposed to depart that day for
the world that lay without. I went ashore and had lunch with Stuart,
who introduced me to a number of the consuls of the Powers that were
represented in Batuum, all of whom were eager to get word out to
their governments. By three that afternoon I had packages of official
dispatches, inscribed in impressive terms and sealed authoritatively,
consigned to the governments of Austria, Holland, America and Great
Britain, while a fair-sized sack was required to hold the mail that
poured in upon us.
Stuart could not leave his office and I bade him farewell at his desk,
accepting his cheery promise to “look me up” in America at an early
planned visit to my country. Little did either of us think that ere a
month would pass an assassin’s bullet would cut him down in the very
prime of his life. Yet so it was. I read a few weeks later in the
European press my good, kind, cheery friend was shot from ambush by
some unknown man, even as he was entering the door of his house. An
excellent man was Stuart and a public servant true to his trust in time
of trouble; so true, in fact, that in the execution of his official
duties he had encountered the opposition of some discontent in that
seething vortex, who had availed himself of the cure of all evils in
that wild country—assassination. A bare line or two announced his death
and he was forgotten. Yet this man was in his way as much of a martyr
to his duty as any soldier who falls gloriously in battle.
I made my way down to the landing place that afternoon with my
dispatches and the bag of mail. On the pier alongside of which
bobbed the little ship’s boat of the _France_ a great crowd was
gathered. To me there seemed to be at least five hundred. And such a
collection! Every race and nationality that a nightmare might conjure
up. Armenians, Georgians, Turks, Jews, Persians, Russians from the
Caucasus, Tartars and a dozen other races that resembled nothing that
I had ever beheld. Each had his own roll of filthy baggage, mostly
done up in sacks. Never had I in my life seen such an heterogeneous
gathering nor such an assemblage of men that looked so utterly
desperate and woebegone. It took me five minutes to work my way through
the mass to the stairs where my boat lay. Morris was there swearing and
arguing with the mob that was crowding about him yelling and entreating
all at the same time. It sounded like the tumult one hears in the
parrot house at the Zoo.
I jumped into my boat and called to the crew to “give way” for the
_France_. As soon as I could make my voice heard above the din I asked
Morris what in the world it all meant anyway. I nearly fainted when he
told me. They were my refugees! Not less than half a thousand, each
with his heart set on escape from the country. Their plight was pitiful
indeed, for the bulk of them had come from burning villages with only
what they could carry in their hands. Driven from place to place they
had finally landed in Batuum, which they found the worst of all, what
between warring factions and the brutal soldiery, who chased them about
the streets like sheep. Morris had done his work too well. It appeared
that he had been to every shipping agent and had notices posted up that
the _France_ was leaving that very day and would carry refugees out of
the Caucasus free of charge. No wonder the mob was on the pier! Morris
was in high feather and fairly clicking his teeth with sheer delight.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “this is our busy day, sir! There hasn’t been a
minute since I came back from shore this noon that Monroe D. Morris
hasn’t been attending strictly to business. We are sure going to carry
The Mails this trip, sir, and carry them right!” and he took me down
in the little saloon where he had hung up a row of gunny sacks. Above
them was a crudely printed notice: “Mails Close at 3:30 P. M. to-day.”
On each sack was a separate placard which read “Constantinople Mail,”
“Russian Mail,” “Trebizond Mail,” etc., on down the line of bags. Much
to my surprise each of the bags was pretty well filled and more was
coming in every few minutes.
But in the meantime I had to decide about our refugees who were still
roaring in the distance, not clearly understanding whether they were to
be abandoned entirely or not. I called the skipper and asked him how
many we could possibly carry. As a matter of fact there was no room
for any save on the deck and in the chain locker forward, as our own
crew filled the balance of the _France’s_ very small accommodations.
We made an inspection and finally decided that we might stretch our
space to hold thirty. Stomati the cook, armed with his seven languages,
was sent off in the boat to pick out thirty likely-looking refugees. I
instructed him to accept none without passports, which at once cut the
total down about half. When the crowd on shore heard that only thirty
could go there was a rush for the boat that nearly put the entire front
rank into the sea. So after all there was not much of a chance to pick
and choose and the boat brought off the first that came to hand, with
their sacks and miscellaneous dunnage. Morris and Spero stood at the
gangway inspecting passports and hustled the unaccepted passportless
back into the boat to be relanded. For an hour the little boat plied
back and forth until the _France_ was alive with the human wrecks and
their impedimenta.
In the meantime I was entertaining a few friends in my saloon who had
come out to say good-by. By four in the afternoon our refugees were all
aboard and our papers duly received from the port officials. The sun
had gone under a cloud and a stiff wind was blowing in from the sea as
with anchor up, we swung around the end of the breakwater, with long
blasts from our deep-toned foghorn as a farewell to friends ashore. The
flag on the American Consulate was dipped and some enthusiast on the
roof let go both barrels of a shotgun, to which we replied by bending
our own ensign. In fifteen minutes we were at sea and the top of the
Greek Church, the only sign left to us of the little town, to which it
had been the first to welcome us from the storm a few days before.
At nightfall we were pounding into a heavy sea that swept across us at
every dip. Not that it made any difference to us but it did play the
mischief with our refugees quartered out on the deck. The first sea to
come aboard was greeted with yelps and squeals from the poor wretches
we had undertaken to rescue. In a few minutes it became obvious that
the deck would not serve at all and we began to look about us for
shelter somewhere on board. Then I began to curse myself for a fool for
loading myself and the _France_ down with these thirty irresponsible
nondescripts whose only effort to help themselves was to cling to the
rails and scream piteously every time we took a sea. Besides this most
of them were desperately seasick. Finally, however, we disposed of
them in a way. When we had them packed away for the night there was
not a spot on the boat that was not occupied, barring my own quarters,
as I positively refused to introduce fifty-seven varieties of vermin
(which did not have to be imagined) into my little cabin. Anyway I was
afraid some of these disreputable creatures might steal what gold I
had left from my coal deal in Batuum. In the engine room, stoke-hold,
chain locker and on the grating above the boilers were packed refugees,
like sardines in a box. As they began to steam and dry out with the
heat I wished more than ever that I had let them remain to be eaten
alive if need be by the gentle citizens of the Caucasus. About midnight
it became very rough and a great fear seemed to seize one and all of
my dear passengers. Every little while they would break out of their
retreats and rush out on the deck under the impression that we were
sinking. Then the first wave that swept us would soak them to the skin
and with piercing howls they would scuttle back to the place where
they belonged. All night long this kept up until for the first time I
felt that shipwreck might not be such an unmixed evil after all. Any
change would be preferable to this. By one A. M. I had decided that my
refugees should start life anew at Trebizond, and that not one foot
further should they go with me. They might get another boat from there
if they so desired, but not the _France_! At daylight they began to beg
for food and sat around the head of my companion-way like so many apes
watching me eat my breakfast. Above my head were a dozen faces peering
eagerly through the skylight. Finally I sent them all to the galley and
ordered Stomati to give them breakfast.
At nine we anchored in Trebizond and I sighed with relief, for it
seemed to me that my troubles with the refugee problem were over, if
nothing else pleasant ever happened again.
After their rough night at sea mingled with fear and seasickness my
passengers were as eager to disembark as we all were to get rid of
them, and even before we anchored they were crowded at the gangway
waiting to land. But alas! We had reckoned without our host! The
rat-eyed governor saw a chance to display his authority. When I went
ashore to arrange for relieving myself of the refugees he promptly
replied that it could not be done. After an involved argument which
accomplished nothing I appealed to the acting consul who lived on the
bluff and accompanied by him and the missionary who lived in town,
we made another assault on the potentate who was giving himself such
airs. Finally he agreed to go out to the _France_ and look over my
importations. All of these negotiations had taken time and the refugees
had become restless and anxious as to their fate and when they saw the
governor’s boat with armed soldiers coming out toward them a panic
seized them, or at least some of them, which I thought curious at the
time, but saw a possible reason for before the day was over.
With as much dignity as though he had been the Sultan himself our
dirty visitor climbed over the side and demanded that the men from
the Caucasus be placed in line before him and show their passports.
He evidently thought that he had me there, and that none would be
forthcoming, for his face fell visibly when each and every one of the
trembling wretches produced the frayed and filthy rags of paper from
mysterious pockets in their garments. Some underling that belonged to
the governor inspected the first passport and a long debate in Turkish
ensued between the officials. The governor’s countenance brightened
perceptibly and with great dignity he spoke to the consul and then
turned around and glared at me, no doubt feeling my lack of reverence
for his august person.
“What does he say?” I asked the consul impatiently, for I was anxious
to be off.
“He says,” replied the consul, with just the shade of a deprecating
smile, “that inasmuch as these passports have not been properly viséd
in Batuum, it will be quite impossible for him to allow them to land
here. You should have had the Turkish representative there inspect and
countersign all these papers.”
I was certainly indignant.
“Do you mean to say,” I retorted with some heat, “that he insists
on a visé from a port that is in a state of siege with people being
killed in the streets? These men don’t live in Batuum anyway and most
of them have come from towns in the interior and barely escaped with
their lives. Besides some of them actually live here in Trebizond!” My
reply was translated but my expression did not need an interpreter. The
governor distinctly had the upper hand and sneeringly replied that the
situation in Batuum was not due to him and that he did not care a rap
whether the town was in a state of siege or not. “No visé no landing”
was his ultimatum. I asked him what he expected me to do with them, to
which he shrugged his shoulders scornfully and prepared to leave. I was
too angry to engage in further discussion and as I watched him go over
the side an inspiration broke upon me. So I merely remarked politely
that I would think the matter over and would advise him later as to
my decision. This obviously did not please him as he apparently did
not see where I had any particular decision coming my way. So he only
growled a surly reply as he rowed away.
As soon as he was gone I called a council of war in my saloon and
proposed my plan. I figured on sailing from Trebizond to the mouth of
the Danube and thence back to Russia, and it was obvious that there
would be no welcome to my passengers in either of these places. My idea
was that we would say no more about it but make all of our preparations
to depart and just before we weighed anchor put all our refugees in
our two ship’s boats with their equipment of oars and just simply
leave them in the harbor. If the governor wanted to keep them adrift
there with no food—well, then that would be his affair and not mine.
He could drown them if he thought best, once they were off my hands.
No one but Morris sympathized with my project, but I was running the
enterprise, and issued the ultimatum and went ashore to send a cable
before leaving.
But once again my plans were changed for there was an urgent cable
awaiting me from Chicago: “Return Constantinople give up _France_
proceed quickest possible St. Petersburg investigate Witte’s charges
against our correspondent there whom he asserts has misquoted him.”
So here was my whole program upset once more and for the first time
my scheme for marooning my passengers began to seem injudicious. I
could make no excuse for disobeying the governor at Trebizond if my
next call was to be at a Turkish port. I thought a minute and my pet
project evaporated. I would take them to the Golden Horn. But to
forestall difficulties there I cabled Mr. Peter Jay, then chargé at
our Embassy in Constantinople, that I was coming with refugees and to
arrange to have the authorities take delivery of same on my arrival.
Then I went back to the landing. The missionary, who was a lovely man
and sympathized strongly with me, had been pleading with the governor
for the refugees. While that mighty man stood bashfully by playing
coyly with his sword tassels, the missionary delicately intimated to
me that his Excellency on account of his good impression of me and
of his desire to oblige, would waive the formalities of the pass-port
visés and allow the unfortunates to land if I could see my way clear to
defray his trouble in the matter for the sum of five pounds sterling
per refugee. The old swine! I was indignant! I told the missionary
that he could tell his fat friend that I would see him sizzling first
and that I was going straight back to Constantinople, where I knew a
general who was close to the Sultan and I would stay there a month if
necessary but I certainly intended to get him “fired” for a rotten old
grafter. I could not speak his language and the missionary declined
to translate—so I left. I am afraid the Turk never really knew all I
thought of him, but he did know that his generous offer was turned
down, for his face flushed crimson and he spun on his heel and went to
his office. I decided not to wait for him to make another move and so
I jumped into the boat and pulled for the _France_. As soon as I was
within calling distance I shouted to the skipper to get up the anchor,
and as I stepped over the side, her engines were already turning over
and her nose coming around toward the sea. I had sent Morris directly
from the cable office to buy food of the refugee type and we brought
off a boatload of cabbages and green things which should keep them
until we could put them ashore at Constantinople.
It was about nine-thirty that night as we were spinning merrily along
over a fair sea, when the chief engineer came into my saloon. His face
was like putty.
“What is wrong?” I asked with some apprehension, for he was the
pluckiest of the lot.
For reply he threw on the table two large coils of fuses, the type
one uses to set off a bomb or dynamite cartridges. I recognized them
at once, for I had used the identical thing in a little dynamiting
enterprise of my own a few years before.
“Where did these come from?” I asked sharply, looking at his white face.
“One of the stokers found them in the coal bunkers,” he replied
quietly, and then added tensely, “and he nearly put them in the furnace
with the coal.”
“Well, these are only fuses,” I said to reassure him. “They won’t do
any thing but fizzle a bit.”
He smiled a bit sadly.
“Yes, I know that,” he replied, “but has it occurred to you that the
man who carries fuses is apt to have the caps and the charge that
they are meant to explode? And has it occurred to you that whoever
put the fuse in the bunker probably put in the bomb as well? And has
it occurred to you that at any moment they may go into the furnace by
mistake with the coal? And has it occurred to you that when they do we
will all go to Kingdom Come?”
This was certainly a new idea. No, it had not occurred to me at all.
However, it did strike me as being a pertinent thought now that he
spoke of it and I sat on the edge of my berth, with the shoe I had been
removing still in my hand. Finally something else occurred to me as
well and after a moment’s deliberation I replied, “You go right back to
the stoke-hold, Chief, and explain the whole situation to the stokers.
If they put a bomb in the furnace they will all be scalded to death
beyond a shadow of a doubt. The rest of us have a chance to get away.
Not a big one—but still it is a chance anyway. The stokers down there
have not the most remote hope if they should make a blunder like that.
Explain it carefully to them and then you go to bed. For it is my guess
that under the circumstances they won’t put anything in the furnace
to-night that does not bear a very decided resemblance to good black
coal.”
The Chief thought a little and then went and did as I had suggested. In
fifteen minutes he returned with the word that the day shift of stokers
had turned out and, assisted by the balance of the crew not otherwise
occupied, were making a careful personal inspection of every shovelful
that went into the furnace. We both laughed a little and decided that
we could safely turn in and sleep soundly.
But before I did so I called the skipper in for council. We talked
it all over and decided that someone of our refugees had had the
explosives on him and when we got into the row with the governor at
Trebizond and it looked as though there were to be an examination of
passengers, the guilty man had become panic stricken and, prying up
the bunker lid on the deck, had dropped the damaging evidence against
himself into the bunker, never doubting that he would be well ashore at
Trebizond before the _France_ was at sea again. He must also be passing
a restless night knowing what was in the bunkers.
This time I was more than indignant!
It seemed a poor return for all the pains that I had taken in behalf of
these wretched people. I called in Morris and told him that I wanted
him to watch the refugees carefully from this time on, as I suspected
that one of them at least, might be a desperate man, and the Lord only
knew what he might be up to before we landed back in the Golden Horn.
“Now, Morris,” I told him, “I am going to assign you to watch these men
just as carefully as you know how and if you see the slightest sign of
a single one of them making any move which in your judgment is going to
endanger the _France_ and the lives of any of us I want you to shoot
him on the spot!” And I gave him my big army Colt.
The black man’s face shone with excitement and his teeth gleamed, as he
replied:
“Yes, sir; yes, sir. I’ll do just as you say, sir. And if I see
anything suspicious, I’ll shoot him right through the head, sir,” and
he went on deck to look for symptoms.
But it proved unnecessary. Whether anything more was in the bunkers or
not we never knew. Suffice it to say that we did not blow up, but kept
blithely on our way towards the mouth of the Bosphorus, whence we had
steamed nearly two weeks before.